


let's get drunk, i’ll pour my heart out through my mouth

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: First Dates, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 22:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He drank enough last night to get quite solidly drunk, but not enough to fully black out or anything, thank god. He vaguely remembers downing a bottle of Gatorade before he went to sleep, and he gives past Travis a mental pat on the back.He wonders if he has enough time to fall back asleep before practice. Then something behind him moves, and Travis finally notices the arm around his waist when it tightens.His eyes fly open.Holyfuck, did he pick someone up last night? He isn’t in the habit of waking up with strangers, not really, but at least he’s in his own bedroom, that doesn’t—Wait. He knows those shoes. Nolan’s dumb sneakers are on the floor next to the bed, and that’s his watch on the nightstand, right in front of Travis’ face.Okay.





	let's get drunk, i’ll pour my heart out through my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> you know it’s allllll fiction
> 
> tiny warning in the end notes

Travis is very warm.

That’s the first thing he notices as his brain floats toward consciousness. It’s not bad, though—he’s faintly sweaty but not hot enough to be miserable. It’s almost cozy, even. He yawns, cataloguing his headache. It’s throbbing but not hammering, so he’ll take it.

He drank enough last night to get quite solidly drunk, but not enough to fully black out or anything, thank god. He vaguely remembers downing a bottle of Gatorade before he went to sleep, and he gives past Travis a mental pat on the back.

He wonders if he has enough time to fall back asleep before practice. Then something behind him moves, and Travis finally notices the arm around his waist when it tightens.

His eyes fly open.

Holy _fuck_, did he pick someone up last night? He isn’t in the habit of waking up with strangers, not really, but at least he’s in his own bedroom, that doesn’t—

Wait. He knows those shoes. Nolan’s dumb sneakers are on the floor next to the bed, and that’s his watch on the nightstand, right in front of Travis’ face.

Okay.

Not a stranger, at least. Travis takes a careful breath, trying to calm his racing heart and also not wake up Nolan. He’s going to guess it’s Nolan behind him, anyway, that seems like safe assumption. He shifts a little, gently, and cranes his neck—yep, he recognizes that tattoo. Definitely not a stranger.

His heart is fucking hammering, and how could Nolan _not_ feel it, with the way he’s fully wrapped around Travis’ back, oh god. Travis is being aggressively spooned in a way that’s more like a smother, and he doesn’t hate it, actually, but that’s perhaps a revelation for another time.

He takes another breath. This is fine. They went out drinking, with a bunch of the guys, and they must’ve come back together and crashed. Not an unusual occurrence. They usually end up in their own apartments, or on someone’s couch, at least, but—

Travis is not wearing a shirt. Fuck. Nolan isn’t, either, and Travis blinks down at the bare arm around his chest.

He’s wearing boxers, that’s comforting, but Travis is pretty sure that they’re fucking _sticky_, and he’s also pretty sure that he’s two seconds away from freaking out. Things are starting to flash through his head, snippets of memories, and he grimaces, trying to push them back.

* * *

“_Teeeeks_,” Nolan said, all sing-song, and Travis laughed. It was loud in the bar, and they were crowded close so they could hear each other.

“Dude, you are fucking drunk.”

Nolan made an adorable scrunched-up face and wrapped both arms around Travis’ shoulders. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the perfect size?”

Travis snorted. “No, that’s usually not what people say about my size.”

Nolan pulled him closer and tilted his head so his cheek was resting on Travis’ hair. “Well, they’re wrong.”

“You fuckin’ weirdo,” he said, muffled into Nolan’s chest.

“Huh?”

“Nothin’.” Travis wound his arms around Nolan’s waist because who was he to turn down free cuddling?

* * *

Nolan stirs again, letting out a little noise as he pushes his nose into Travis’ hair, and Travis needs to get out of this bed as soon as fucking possible. Nolan sleeps like the dead, thank god, which means Travis can sidle out of his grip, roll over out of bed, and land on his feet silently like some kind of one-night-stand ninja.

He strips out of his boxers—_definitely_ sticky, holy fuck—and tosses them into his hamper before escaping into the bathroom. He carefully locks the door and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks the same. Tired and hungover, yeah, but mostly the same. He isn’t sure what he expected, but he feels like possibly hooking up with his best friend deserves a flashing neon sign or something.

Travis splashes his face with cold water and stays bent over the sink, his head in his hands. He’s never—guys have never really been a thing for him before. He sort of thinks Nolan’s hot or whatever, but that’s normal enough, and he’s certainly never been inspired to act on it.

Up until now, apparently, and Travis grimaces.

The knock on the door startles him, and he jerks, banging his hip on the sink. “Fuck, ow.”

“Teeks?”

He swallows. “Yeah?”

“We gotta leave for practice in 20 minutes.”

“The PR people need me for a thing after,” he calls out, which isn’t even a lie, he fucking swears. “Let’s go separate, don’t want you to have to wait.”

It’s silent, and Travis holds his breath.

“Whatever,” Nolan says finally. “See you.”

Travis waits, not moving a muscle, until he hears his front door slam. He exhales, dropping down onto his elbows, and knocks his head against the sink with a wince. He needs some coffee and like, a fuckton of Advil before he can even begin to deal with this.

He gets ready for practice in a daze. Practice is going to suck, for one, because he made a stupid decision to drink too much last night—one of several stupid decisions, it seems. At least it isn’t a fucking game day.

It’s probably fine, Travis rationalizes to himself as he drives to the arena. They were drunk, and who knows what actually happened, and Nolan probably doesn’t even remember. _Travis_ barely remembers. No big deal.

He parks in his usual spot and tries to find comfort in his normal routine. It works, sort of, until Nolan walks in. Their eyes met for a second, then Nolan flushes a dull red and drops his gaze.

Fuck. Maybe he does remember.

It’s only because Travis has been playing hockey since he could walk, practically, that he can get ready for and participate in a full practice while he’s mostly distracted by trying—and failing—not to think about Nolan. He’s clearly doing a shit job of hiding it, though, since no fewer than three separate people come up to him and ask what’s going on with the two of them.

He laughs it off each time, but he knows it’s not good that they’re actively avoiding each other. People are already noticing, obviously, and G will probably only let them try to work it out on their own for a day or two before he gets involved. Not only because he’s a good captain, but also he’s a fucking busybody.

Travis doesn’t _look_ hungover enough to be forced to bag skate, which is a fucking miracle, and he hops off the ice quickly, not staying to do extra work like he often does.

The PR folks corner him as soon as he’s showered, and he finds himself seated at a table in front of what feels like thousands of pucks and cards and jerseys and sticks, all for him to sign. It isn’t so bad because he could scrawl his signature in his sleep, so he can fully zone out.

He doesn’t even look up until he feels someone watching him, and he spots Nolan, walking by on his way out. Nolan’s eyes slide away again, after less than a second, and something hot and shameful creeps up Travis’ throat. He’s gotta figure this shit out.

He finishes his signing in under half an hour and hightails it for home.

Travis feels a little better after he downs another cup of coffee and eats one of the remade meals in his fridge, but then he goes into his bedroom and sees the rumpled sheets and everything feels bad again. He flops down onto his bed with a groan and scrubs his hands over his face. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. He knows that _something_ happened, even if he isn’t totally sure what or why.

Well.

He has a decent idea of what happened—of what _probably_ happened, at least. The why is a little more elusive. As is the _how_, as in how Nolan feels about the whole thing.

He turns over, and his eyes catch on Nolan’s watch, still on the nightstand. He must’ve forgotten it, meaning that Travis will have to give it back, meaning that they might have to acknowledge this, this _thing_ that happened that probably tipped them over the line of their weirdly codependent friendship.

Travis is antsy. He kind of wants to jerk off, but the thought of it feels a little weird right now, so he rolls over again and tries to fall asleep instead. He can’t, though, no matter how many fucking sheep he counts, as if that ever works, and he ends up just lying there, trying not to think about last night and totally failing. He doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers enough, and he’s pretty sure it was…nice. They were drunk, sure, but it didn’t seem unlike any other night they went out, and he isn’t sure what made this one different.

* * *

“Shhh, it’s late,” Travis hissed. He covered Nolan’s mouth with his hand and laughed when he bit at his fingers.

“First of all, you’re the one being loud. As always. Second of all, we’re in the elevator. No one can hear us.”

Travis blinked at him. “You say so many words when you’re drunk. So many words, Pats.”

The elevator dinged at Travis’ floor, and Nolan tugged at his arm. “C’mon, drunky.”

“You’re drunk, too,” he protested because that was true, he was sure of it.

“I’m just a better drunk than you, I can still walk.”

Travis snorted. “I can walk.”

“Then why is your arm around my waist?”

Travis wasn’t sure when that had happened, actually. He tightened his grip, appreciating how sturdy Nolan’s midsection felt under his arm. “D’ya really wanna know?”

“Maybe,” Nolan said challengingly, then slowed them to a stop in front of Travis’ door. “Please tell me you have your keys.”

“Uh-huh,” Travis said, but he didn’t move. He was comfortable here, his nose mashed up against Nolan’s shoulder. Nolan smelled _so_ good, Travis really liked whatever cologne he was wearing.

“Uh, thank you,” Nolan said.

“For what?”

Nolan just laughed. He laughed so much more when he was drunk, it was awesome. “Keys. Which pocket?”

“Don’t remember,” Travis lied, and Nolan snorted as he boxed Travis in against his door. He started with a back pocket and was pretty thorough about it, practically groping his ass. “Hmm, nope. Try another one.”

Nolan moved to a front pocket, his fingers dangerously close to Travis’ dick. He emerged with the keys, twirling them around one finger. “Got ‘em.”

“Congrats.”

Travis didn’t move and let Nolan lean around him to unlock the door. Travis stumbled inside ahead of him and braced himself against Nolan’s side as he kicked off his shoes.

“I need water,” Nolan announced. “Like, a lot.”

“Gatorade, bro. C’mon.”

“You have blue?”

Travis opened his fridge and yawned. “No, ‘cause you’re the only person on literally the entire planet who likes blue. I have red, like a normal person.”

Nolan rolled his eyes and waited until Travis had cracked his open and started drinking to shove at his arm.

“Dude,” he spluttered.

“Whoops,” Nolan said flatly, and Travis glared at him as he stripped his Gatorade-splattered shirt over his head and used it to wipe his face.

He tried to get Nolan back by doing the same thing, but Nolan’s arms were longer, infuratingly, and he was mostly able to hold Travis off as he drank from his own bottle. Travis ended up in a headlock, somehow, and then his elbow was in Nolan’s stomach and there was spilled Gatorade everywhere, including dripping off Nolan’s hand that was in front of Travis’ face.

It just seemed natural to crane his neck and mouth at Nolan’s fingers, cleaning off the sticky Gatorade. Nolan stilled, his grip on Travis loosening, but Travis didn’t move until he closed his teeth around the pad of Nolan’s thumb, making him laugh.

“I’m tired,” he whined.

Nolan’s hand was damp when it patted Travis’ bare shoulder. “Go to sleep, then.”

Travis yawned again. He could totally sleep standing up, he was pretty sure that was a thing. “K.”

* * *

It takes Travis a solid three hours to work up the courage to do this, and then he has to call Nolan three times before he actually answers.

He’s grumpy when Nolan finally picks up. “Asshole, are you screening my calls?”

“What do you want?” Nolan mumbles, which is definitely not an answer.

“I want food.”

“You want food?”

Travis grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah. I want that new Italian place, the one G was talking about.”

“Uh, don’t think that’s on Uber Eats, bro.”

“I fucking know that,” Travis snaps. He takes a deep breath. “Come with me. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“You’ll _pick me up_?” Nolan says, sounding more normal, and Travis grins.

“Yeah.”

Nolan doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and Travis, embarrassingly, crosses his fingers.

“K,” Nolan says finally, just one beautiful, monotone, mumbled syllable, and if Travis does an actual fist bump, at least no one is there to see it.

“Awesome. Wear something nice, it’s a fancy place.” He hangs up before Nolan can say anything in response, mostly because he’s afraid he’ll take it back.

Next he calls G, who mercifully picks up.

“Are you calling me on the _phone_?” he says, in lieu of a normal greeting. “I thought you millennials hated talking on the phone.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re a millennial, too,” Travis shoots back, on autopilot. “But no, this is an emergency.”

“What?” G says immediately. It’s impressive, actually, how quickly he can switch into his captain voice.

“Uh, I need a reservation at that new restaurant. For tonight. That Italian one, the one you were talking about the other day. How do I do that?”

It’s quiet for a second, and Travis glances at the screen to make sure the call didn’t drop.

“Tonight,” G says flatly. “A Saturday night. On short notice. At that brand-new restaurant with the Michelin star.”

Travis winces. “Yeah.”

G laughs at him for a solid 15 seconds and then hangs up. He texts him five minutes later, though, with details about a reservation at eight, because he is actually a fucking gem of a human being.

_Good luck making up with Patty, tell him I say hi_, he sends next, and Travis immediately rescinds every single nice thought he’s ever had about the man.

* * *

Nolan laughed as he landed on his back on the bed. Travis followed, and he tried to keep from elbowing Nolan anywhere soft.

“Fuck, you’re heavy,” Nolan said, still laughing, his hands on Travis’ hips. “Get off me.”

“Nah.” Travis let his weight go dead, ignoring Nolan’s groan of protest. “Pretty sure _someone_ said earlier that I was the perfect size, so this must be fine.”

Nolan groaned. “I take it back.”

He didn’t move, though, and Travis didn’t, either, because this was actually really comfortable. He didn’t really remember why they ended up in his bed in the first place—something about his couch being too small, maybe?—but Travis wasn’t complaining. It was his bed, after all, which was comfy as fuck and also his preferred place to be when he was this drunk.

“You smell like tequila,” Nolan said, so obviously, Travis exhaled obnoxiously in his direction. Nolan twisted away with a groan, and Travis planted his hands on his shoulders in an attempt to keep him in place. They were usually pretty well-matched when they wrestled—Nolan was bigger, but Travis was wilier—and that was still true when they were drunk, it was just sloppier.

Nolan managed to wrench Travis off of him eventually, though he had to resort to digging his fingers into Travis’ ribs where he was unfortunately really ticklish. Travis would normally protest that as a violation of the wrestling rules, but he was drunk and didn’t care, and also Nolan was laughing, his face all scrunched up, which seemed more important than enforcing the normal rules.

Nolan wasn’t ticklish at all, which was so on-brand and also super unfair, since it meant Travis couldn’t get him back. He must’ve said that out loud because Nolan snorted. “Shows what you know.”

Travis’ eyes lit up, and Nolan looked horrified. “No. Fuck. I take it back, I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you _did_,” Travis crowed as he clambered on top of Nolan again. “Holy mother of fuck, you _are_ ticklish, I fucking knew it. Where, tell me.”

“Absolutely not. Never.”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” Travis chanted, and Nolan tried to roll away from him, laughing.

* * *

Travis is a professional athlete. He’s used to dealing with adrenaline, and he’s been thriving in high-pressure situations since he was like, 15.

None of that explains why he’s standing outside his best friend’s door, bent over at the waist, practically hyperventilating. This is—this is not a big deal at all, actually. Deep breath. Just dinner.

“Just dinner,” he whispers as he straightens and runs his hand through his hair, then fucking _yelps_ and almost falls down when Nolan opens the door.

He’s got one hand braced against the doorjamb, and he looks annoyingly casual. “Heard you pacing out there.”

“Was not,” Travis lies, blatantly, as he pushes past him, ducking under his arm, into his apartment. “What, were you waiting at the door?”

“You’re late. It’s been an hour and four minutes.”

Travis snorts. “Oh, Mr. Punctuality now, eh?”

He turns and, for the first time, actually registers Nolan. He’s not wearing a tie, obviously, so his light blue shirt is open at the neck, and it looks really nice with his gray pants, which Travis knows are his favorite. He always frets when they go to the dry cleaners, which is ridiculous because a) they’re kind of experts when it comes to clothes, and b) he could just buy new—anyway. Not important.

Travis swallows. His _hair_ is even neat, what the fuck. “You, uh. You look nice.”

Before Nolan can say anything in response, Travis digs in his pocket for his watch that he left this morning. Nolan isn’t wearing another one, so Travis reaches for his arm and quickly fastens the watch around his wrist. “Here.”

“Oh.” Nolan looks down at it and wiggles his wrist for a second before stuffing his hand in his pocket. “Thanks.”

“You ready to go?”

“Sure.”

It feels strangely familiar, almost, as they head down to the parking garage. If Travis tries hard, he can pretend that it’s just a game day or something because that’s a hell of a lot easier to digest than the fact that Nolan—_Nolan_, who would live in ratty sweats and old Wheat Kings shirts if he could—put on nice clothes basically because Travis asked him to.

Things still feel a little stilted between them, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was when they were avoiding each other earlier. Right now it just seems like there’s an elephant in the room. A large, drunk elephant that neither of them are acknowledging.

Travis is trying to be normal, perhaps aggressively so as he picks a fight about the radio station on the way, but it works. Nolan swats his hand away and studiously ignores Travis’ exclamations about how the driver gets to decide, saying instead that if he has to put up with Travis’ driving, he gets to pick the music. That launches a very familiar argument about Travis’ driving skills—or lack thereof, but that one fender bender was _not_ his fault—and something settles in his gut.

The restaurant isn’t far, and when they get there, Travis tosses his keys at the valet and ushers Nolan inside. “How the fuck did you get a reservation here?” Nolan says as they get escorted back to their table. He says it quietly, meaning that he leans down to talk into his ear, meaning that Travis maybe shivers a little.

Travis scoffs. “I know people, I can throw my name around.”

Nolan lifts an eyebrow at him while they sit down.

“I called G,” he admits, and Nolan nods as he opens the wine list.

“You’re paying, obviously,” he says, without looking up. “Fancy new contract and all.”

Travis has to bite his lip to keep from grinning. “I mean, I woulda paid anyway. Since I asked you, it’s only polite.”

“Polite is definitely the first word I would use to describe you, yeah.”

“Hey, shut the _fuck_—”

Travis belatedly realizes where they are, and how loud his voice just got, and sinks down in his chair a little. Nolan actually laughs, mostly a loud exhale through his nose, and Travis grins.

_Shut the fuck up_, he mouths instead, and kicks him gently under the table for good measure. Nolan traps one of his feet between his own and keeps it there, and Travis is having trouble breathing again.

Nolan looks relaxed now, though, slouched a little in his chair as he flips through the wine list. Travis doesn’t exactly understand how and why candlelight is so flattering, but that’s a thing, he’s pretty sure.

“Are you a wine connoisseur now?” he says because that’s safer than saying something about Nolan’s collarbones or whatever.

“Fancy word. I could know things about wine.”

“Yeah, and I could know things about how to do my taxes.”

Nolan smiles but doesn’t look up. “The beer list is in here, too.”

“Thank fuck.” Travis is _not_ getting drunk, but one drink wouldn’t hurt to take the edge off and maybe calm him down a little bit. “Unless you, uh, actually want wine. That’s cool, we can do that.”

“No, I don’t know shit about wine.”

* * *

All of a sudden they were kissing, and it was seamless, and Travis couldn’t remember a time when they _weren’t_ kissing. It was syrupy and slow and probably sloppy, but Travis didn’t care. Nolan’s hand was tight in his hair, which was fucking great, _that_ was new, and he was taking hitching breaths that Travis could hear, and their legs were tangled, and his skin was warm where his shirt had ridden up, and it was just way too much sensory input for Travis’ poor, drunk brain.

Nothing seemed as important as feeling Nolan’s skin against his, _right now_, so he wrestled Nolan’s shirt off. He was radiating heat, which was amazing, and Travis managed to get his pants off, too, and then he was straddling Nolan, feeling the stretch in his thighs, and Nolan’s hands were so tight on his hips, and—

* * *

Travis reaches for the bill as soon as the waiter sets it down between them, and Nolan looks a little surprised, as if he was expecting a token protest.

“What?” Travis says, cockier than he feels. “I wasn’t lying.”

“I shoulda gotten the steak, then.”

Travis snorts and slides his credit card into the little pocket of the billfold. “You were a plenty expensive date, don’t worry.”

It’s the first time that either of them have breathed the word _date_, and Travis tries to rush past it before it can get awkward. He isn’t sure that quickly transitioning to talking about their fantasy football team is any _less_ awkward, but Nolan doesn’t comment on him calling this a date, so he’s considering it a win.

It’s cold while they wait for the valet, and Travis lets himself huddle close to Nolan under the guise of seeking warmth. Nolan doesn’t put his arm around him or anything, not that that’s what Travis is hoping for, but he does press against Travis’ side.

Travis wets his lips. “So can I drive you back to your place?”

Nolan snorts and bumps their shoulders together. “Very funny.”

“Thank you, I _am_ hilarious.”

The drive home is quieter, though not awkward, and Nolan fusses with his Spotify playlists forever until he finally picks one, putting it on low. It starts with a song that Travis doesn’t recognize, something electronic and soft, but he finds himself tapping his thumb to the beat against the steering wheel.

Travis keeps getting distracted by Nolan’s profile in the passenger seat, his face shifting in and out of shadows as the lights of the city flash by. Nolan catches him one time, tilting his head just the slightest. “Light’s green.”

“Fuck,” Travis says under his breath as he guns it, and he swears he can see Nolan smile out the corner of his eye.

While they’re waiting for the elevator in the parking garage, Nolan touches the back of his hand to Travis’, just briefly. “Hey. Thanks for dinner.”

Travis looks up at him. The light is weird and harsh down here, and he can’t really see Nolan’s eyes. “Uh, yeah. Course. Thanks for coming.”

Nolan holds his gaze for a long second, he thinks, but then the elevator dings and Travis jumps. It’s empty, thankfully, and Nolan hits the button for his own floor only.

Travis feels truly awkward for the first time that night as the trails after Nolan down the hallway to his apartment. He hangs back as Nolan opens the door, then he turns with one eyebrow quirked. “You coming in?”

Travis swallows. “Sure.”

Nolan just strolls inside like usual, as if their entire world hasn’t just turned on its axis and this is just a normal Saturday night that didn’t involve the two of them putting on nice clothes and going to a fancy restaurant. “You wanna watch something?”

“Sure,” Travis says again. It might be the only word he knows right now.

“You pick,” Nolan says over his shoulder as he walks back toward his bedroom, and Travis has to stick his head in the freezer for a second to calm down. It’s fine.

He flips through the apps on Nolan’s TV, looking but not really registering them, until Nolan comes back out. He’s wearing sweatpants now, but he’s still got on his nice shirt, though the sleeves are rolled up and one more button is undone. “Anything good?”

“There’s a new Claire video,” Travis says, and he watches Nolan carefully as he sits right in the middle of the couch. Travis is still standing, he’d been too nervous to make a decision about where to sit.

“Cool,” Nolan says, then lifts an eyebrow when Travis doesn’t move. “You gonna watch standing up?”

Travis opens his mouth, then closes it. Nolan rolls his eyes and reaches out to snag a finger in Travis’ waistband, tugging him down. Travis stumbles and catches himself with a hand on Nolan’s thigh.

“Calm down and watch Claire make Hot Pockets.”

Right. Totally normal night on the couch, watching random shit on TV. No big deal.

Do they normally sit this close? Travis can’t remember. They’re pretty fucking close right now, Nolan’s thigh a long, warm line against his. What does he normally do with his hands? Folding them in his lap feels weird, so does tucking them under his thighs. He’d usually be on his phone, he guesses, but he doesn’t want to do that right now.

Nolan shoulders him, not gently. “I’m going to fucking murder you if you don’t stop fidgeting,”

“I’m not!” Travis argues, just on autopilot, and Nolan rolls his eyes. He scoots over, away from Travis, and right as Travis starts to _fully_ freak out over what that means, Nolan yanks at his arm, tugging until he’s lying down, facing the TV with his head in Nolan’s lap.

Nolan’s hand moves up into his hair, and Travis groans, unabashed, muffling the sound into Nolan’s thigh. He’s a fucking sucker for a good head scratch, and Nolan knows it. Really knows it, going by his snort.

“Shut _up_,” Travis whines. “It feels good.”

Nolan usually only indulges him for a few seconds—_maybe_ a full minute if Travis looks pathetic enough while tired and/or hungover on the team plane—but today he scratches all across the nape of Travis’ neck, moves up to the crown of his head, and shows no signs of stopping. “Fuck, I love you. This is the best.”

“Well, your hair actually seems clean for once, so.”

Travis is pretty sure he’s drunk on dopamine or oxytocin or whatever the fuck makes this feel so good. “Washed it today and everything. Just f’r you, baby,” he mumbles, and Nolan snorts again.

“Wow, thanks.”

Nolan keeps scratching, and when goosebumps spring up on Travis’ arms, he belatedly realizes his mouth is kind of open on Nolan’s thigh, whoops. It’s comfortable, though, even when he stops scratching and starts just kind of petting at Travis’ hair, occasionally combing his fingers through the strands.

Eventually, Nolan tugs hard enough to make Travis shiver, and he twists his head, blinking up at him. “Fuck. What?”

“It’s over. You falling asleep on me?”

“No.”

Nolan’s hand is on his neck now, just resting naturally there, giant and warm, and Travis is incapable of handling the weird feelings that are fluttering in this stomach.

“Bathroom!” he yelps, then almost trips as he rolls gracelessly off the couch. He avoids Nolan’s gaze as he darts out of the room and finds himself staring at his reflection in a bathroom mirror, like a coward, for the second time that day. At least he looks better than he did this morning, even though his hair is all messed up now. He tries to fix it, but it won’t really lie flat and he frowns.

“You suck,” he informs himself. “Fix your shit.”

He actually goes to the bathroom, mostly for appearances, and when he summons enough courage to go back into the living room, Nolan is standing, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks closed-off and sad, and while part of Travis wants to die, the other part of him knows that he can fucking fix this.

“Hey,” he says nonsensically, going over to him. “Pats. I’m sorry. I know this is—I’m just confused I guess? And I don’t…”

“Confused,” Nolan repeats, and he doesn’t look any happier.

“No,” Travis blurts. “Not confused, like—”

He can’t get the right words from his brain to his mouth—_are_ there even words to describe this, he’s not convinced—so he leans up and just kisses Nolan instead. It’s off-center and a little awkward, since Nolan obviously wasn’t expecting it, but Nolan makes this adorable surprised noise and gets his hands on Travis’ face to straighten it out. And it’s good, really fucking good, better than Travis’ hazy memories from the night before.

Nolan pulls back after a minute, and Travis is already breathing a little hard.

“Wait. Why are you confused.”

“Not…” Travis swallows. “Not how I feel, or whatever, just if we, uh, if we’re on the same page.”

Nolan blinks. “I don’t even know because you’ve been giving me some mixed signals here.”

Travis groans and thunks his forehead against Nolan’s shoulder. “M’sorry, I’m just like, fuckin’ terrified.”

Nolan doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move away, either, his hands still on Travis’ hips. And when he looks up, Nolan has a very annoying little grin on his face. “I didn’t think you were scared of anything.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Travis says, then kisses him again. It’s harder this time, and deeper, and he’s on his toes, which is less annoying than he would have guessed, but it’s also making his neck hurt a little.

“You’re scared of me,” Nolan mumbles into the kiss. “You just admitted it.”

“Fuck you, no I’m not. I just—”

Nolan backs him into a wall and just, like, hauls him up into his arms. Travis makes an undignified noise of surprise and scrambles to wrap his legs around his waist. “What the fuck, man.”

“I’m tired of bending down, you’re fucking short.”

“Perfect size,” Travis counters, then kisses him again before he can say anything. Nolan’s hand is on his ass, and when Travis shamelessly gropes at his arms and his chest, he can feel how his biceps are flexed. He vows to never tell Nolan how hot this is, he definitely doesn’t need it for his ego.

They eventually make it into Nolan’s room, onto his bed, and Travis gets to live out the fantasy he’s been having all night about unbuttoning Nolan’s shirt.

“_That’s_ your fantasy?” Nolan says, and Travis has _got_ to be better about controlling what he says. “You fuckin’ weirdo.”

He’s smiling, though, and he doesn’t stop, not even when Travis flicks him, hard enough to hurt. “Shut up, this shirt looks nice on you. Accept a fucking compliment.”

“K,” Nolan says easily, before he kisses him.

His bare chest is warm, even through the shirt Travis is still wearing, and lying on top of him like this triggers a memory that he can’t quite make out.

He twists his head with a little huff. “Wait, I—”

“What?” Nolan asks. His thumb brushes against Travis’ ear. “What’s wrong?”

Travis groans and bumps his forehead against Nolan’s collarbone. “I can’t—I don’t remember,” he admits. “Last night. Like, I remember before, sorta, and some of after, but I don’t actually…I don’t really remember it. And that sucks.”

Nolan is smiling when Travis lifts his head to sneak a peek at his face. “You want me to tell you what happened?”

“Sure,” Travis says warily.

“Uh, well, we were in your bed, making out.”

Travis’ cheeks are hot, this is ridiculous. He’s literally in the midst of doing that right now, it shouldn’t feel embarrassing. “Yep, remember that part.”

“You were on top of me.” Nolan squeezes his hips. “Like this.”

Travis swallows. “Uh-huh. Then what?”

Nolan grins at him. “Then you came in about 30 seconds, in your boxers, and immediately fell asleep. Also on top of me.”

Travis gapes at him. “Oh my _god_,” he wails, rolling off Nolan to lie on his back and contemplate his own death. Nolan is laughing, like straight-up cackling. “No. What the fuck. That did not happen.”

“Oh it most definitely did.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Travis demands. “That’d be really shitty, since I don’t remember.”

Nolan’s face softens, and he knocks his knuckles against Travis’ arm. “No. I wouldn’t, I swear. That’s what happened.”

Travis folds both arms over his face and groans. “That’s—I can’t believe I was the worst hook-up ever.”

Nolan pries one of his arms down. “You were not. It’s fine.”

“It’s _fine_?” Travis echoes, his voice a little higher-pitched than he’d like.

Nolan is laughing again, that asshole. “I mean, I was really drunk, too. It wasn’t gonna be good regardless.”

“_Fuuuck_,” he whines. “Man. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I should be, I should’ve stopped you, probably.”

Travis shakes his head. “Like you said, we were drunk. And I, uh,” he says, feeling flushed again, “wanted it, obviously.”

Travis dwells in his embarrassment for a minute, until Nolan props himself up on an elbow. “Did I ruin the mood?”

“No,” Travis mumbles. “I did when I fuckin’ left you hanging.”

Nolan snorts and scoots closer, starting to unbutton Travis’ shirt from the bottom. “Forget about it. Seriously.”

Travis exhales. “I’m trying.”

“This good?”

Travis swallows and nods. Nolan’s hand slides under his shirt, and how has Travis never noticed how _big_ his hands are? His palm curves over his ribs, and when his thumb brushes his nipple, Travis hisses.

Nolan lifts an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Travis says weakly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Nolan does it again, on purpose this time, and Travis makes another noise.

“Your—your face did.”

“My face is talking now, eh?”

“Uh-huh,” Travis says nonsensically. Nolan’s palm rubs over his nipple, and Travis can’t help his hips from arching up, into nothing.

“Sensitive,” he comments, and he doesn’t say it in a teasing way or anything, but Travis’ face burns nonetheless.

“Apparently.”

“Oh is this new?”

Nolan doesn’t wait for an answer, just spreads his shirt open and ducks his head down to lave his tongue over Travis’ nipple. The burst of sensation goes straight to his dick, and he gasps—he didn’t even know this was a thing, what the fuck.

Nolan switches sides, using a scrape of teeth, and Travis flat-out whines. He only has use of his left arm, since Nolan is on his right, leaning on him, so he palms at his dick through his pants, clumsily.

Nolan turns his head, watching Travis’ hand. “Fuck,” he says, his voice even deeper than normal.

It makes his dick throb, and Travis forces his hand away, instead yanking ineffectually at Nolan’s shirt that’s still hanging open. “Take this off.”

Nolan obeys—which is a fucking trip in and of itself, god—and starts to work at Travis’ belt. Travis tugs his own shirt off, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor, and pulls at Nolan’s sweats until he gets the idea. Travis takes over on his pants, and soon they join his shirt on the floor.

Nolan rolls toward him, reaching for his face, and it’s objectively simple, kissing with Nolan’s weight above him, their legs tangled and warm skin pressed together, though it feels like anything but. He has to pull away to breathe after a minute, and he noses at Nolan’s jaw until he tilts his head, giving Travis room to get at his neck.

Nolan twitches at the first touch of his mouth, shivering a little, and when Travis glances up, Nolan’s obviously trying to hide a smile. “Holy shit, this is where you’re ticklish,” Travis crows, and Nolan twists his head to try and get away.

“Oh _that_ you remember, you fucker.”

Travis wins the ensuing wrestling match, though Nolan doesn’t put up much of a fight, and straddles him. Underneath him, Nolan is still and tense—in a good way, Travis thinks, based on how quickly he’s breathing. Travis could get used to this.

He runs his thumb down the column of Nolan’s neck.

“Good ticklish or bad?”

This close, he can see Nolan swallow. “It’s fine.”

Travis smiles. He uses his mouth and tongue and even his teeth, a little, until Nolan is making these really great noises and squirming under him. Travis kisses right under his ear and noses at his hair. “Did you say _fine_?”

Nolan exhales a laugh out his nose. “Fuck you, it’s good.”

He’s hard, Travis can tell when he sneaks a peek down, and he shifts his weight to press his thigh against Nolan’s dick. Nolan makes a _real_ noise at that, pushing up against the pressure, and Travis works his hand inside his briefs. It’s dry, obviously, and Nolan doesn’t seem to mind, sucking in a breath when Travis starts to stroke, but Travis would really like to give him more than a mediocre hand job.

He stills his hand and snorts at Nolan’s resulting groan. “D’you have lube or anything?”

“Fancy.”

“Life’s too short for a chafed dick, dude.”

Nolan rolls his eyes but stretches back toward his nightstand, his abs on display. Travis doesn’t look away like he would have before—not that they were ever in _this_ precise situation, but whatever—because he figures he’s allowed to watch now. Touch, too, and Nolan shivers when Travis brushes his fingers against his side, the cut of his hip.

“Ow, fuck,” Travis says, when the little bottle of lube hits him right in the shoulder, startling him. Nolan is smirking, and Travis glares at him while he squeezes some into his palm.

“You were staring.”

“So?”

Nolan’s cheeks are pink. Travis works his briefs down, as much as he can with his one dry hand, and carefully curls his fingers around his dick. Nolan hisses and squirms. “S’cold.”

“Relax, ya big baby.”

Nolan turns toward him, on his side, and Travis kisses him, eagerly. He tries to figure out how Nolan likes it, but it isn’t easy because Nolan’s _loud_. Not in terms of volume, but there’s a nearly-constant stream of little noises coming from his mouth, sighs and groans and little gasps, more than Travis would’ve thought. Not that he’s spent a lot of time thinking about what Nolan would be like in bed. Just…just _some_ time. A totally normal amount of time.

Whatever Travis is doing must be working, though, since Nolan can’t quite keep his hips still, thrusting minutely into his grip. At least Travis knows the neck thing is good, so he twists his head and plants a sucking kiss on his throat.

“Fuck,” Nolan groans, and Travis can feel the vibration under his lips. “Fuck, Trav, I—”

Travis bites down as Nolan comes, and he curls up a little, his knee knocking into Travis’ thigh. He’s still making noise, a low murmur of _fuck_s and Travis’ name. And Travis can’t hold out anymore, he’s so hard he’s going to die. His hand is warm and slick, from the lube and also Nolan’s come, and the thought and feel of it is almost hotter than he can stand.

Nolan gets his own hand between them and knocks Travis’ away. It’s Nolan’s left hand, so it’s a little clumsy, but Travis doesn’t think he could anything much more than this, anyway. And it’s not going to take much. Nolan’s propped himself up on his elbow, and he sneaks his free hand into Travis’ hair and holds on, tight enough that Travis has to twist his head a little, tight enough to make him gasp.

“Oh, holy fuck.”

“Good?”

Travis can’t really conjure up words right now, so he just nods, licking his lips. Nolan leans in and kisses him, hard, and that plus the hand on his dick plus the hand in hair is a really overwhelming amount of sensation. He can’t really breathe, or move, and apparently that’s something he’s at least a little bit into because he twitches and comes all over Nolan’s hand, groaning into his mouth. Nolan lets go of his hair, cupping the back of his head instead, and Travis lets his weight sink into his hand.

Nolan kisses him one more time and moves back, reaching for a tissue on his nightstand. Travis flops onto his stomach with a sigh, stuffing his face into a pillow that smells like Nolan.

“Lasted longer than last time,” Nolan comments, and Travis uses the very last of his energy to sock him in the arm.

“You won’t let me live that down, will you?”

“Literally never.”

Travis is mostly useless after he comes, so he lets Nolan rearrange them and tug the sheets over them.

“I could be big spoon,” Travis grumbles, already half-asleep.

Nolan bites at the nape of his neck—fondly, but still, what a weirdo—and pushes his knee between Travis’ legs.

“Nah. Perfect size,” he says smugly, and Travis rolls his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> [the title song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qig_yQA7s3w) is way sappier than they deserve, but i couldn’t pass up that lyric
> 
> there’s a reference to some sexual content while drunk (that isn’t fully remembered), but neither party is bothered by it, consent-wise
> 
> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP_d0gNPXM8) is the song nolan put on in the car


End file.
